Devil May Cry
by Giggles96
Summary: Matt's never been very good at the whole 'accepting people's love and support' thing. But he's trying. One-shot. Prompt fill from Daredevil kink meme.


**DEVIL MAY CRY**

 **A/N:** written for a prompt fill over on the Daredevil kink meme. I don't know if this is exactly what the prompter had in mind, but I did my best. Hope you enjoy.

 **Warning:** contains non-sexual age-play between two consenting adults.

 **…**

Late last night, he'd stumbled into his apartment, wrenched off his mask and chucked the blood-soaked cotton in the hamper, before trudging to his bedroom and collapsing onto his springy mattress. He'd face-planted against his pillow, sinking into the swollen sponge, and burrowed under a river of blankets. Yet no matter how hard he tried, Matt simply couldn't fall into a peaceful sleep.

He'd tossed and turned, flinching at every distant sound, with too much rattling around in his riotous mind:

the drone of the refrigerator, a yowling stray three blocks down, the stinging cold, the flickering buzz of a nightclub sign, murmurs of conversation, a breath-hitching blast, tires screeching.

Matt slaps his hands over his ears and huddles into the pillow, stiffening and curling inwards until he's lying in a rigid foetal position.

There's no rest for the wicked. And no knows better than Matt the hell this city will have to pay if someone doesn't intervene. It just so happens that duty befalls him.

Throat parched and gravelly, Matt's breaths come in rattling rasps and swallowing soon begins to feel like gulping down a huge ball of gluey toffee. His mouth feels dry and rough like sandpaper, his teeth are gritty and metallic, and everything is too loud, too heavy around him. The swimming headache and protesting screech of his stiff joints and muscles is uncomfortable but hardly intolerable, and he's taken way worse beatings in the past.

But this feels different somehow. _He_ feels different.

He feels…open.

The job was rough tonight and it shows. He's on red alert, every instinct standing to attention, this unshakeable sense of paranoia hijacking his mind and kindling his nervous system with deafening awareness. He can't turn it off. Danger is everywhere, stark screams ricochet through the teeming hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps and Matt can't tell if the screams are from the past or unshackled in the present or if it's some sick blend of the two.

Everything from the meek lady next door stirring sugar into her piping hot tea to the store manager closing up down the street is starting to register as a potential threat, and the feverish sensations heighten and heighten until the sounds are twisted senseless in a vast knot of unease that sinks to the bottom of his stomach.

Matt groans against the unforgiving racket encompassing him and gropes around the rumpled sheets until his fingers touch upon a soft, fuzzy cloth. Matt drapes the dearly loved blanket over the taut lines of his body and prods the fabric with his nose, nuzzling his face into the material and inhaling whiffs of citric and pine.

It smells like his Daddy.

He bites his lip to keep from whimpering, feeling precariously close to tears at the thought of his surrogate father. Matt could call him, _should_ call him, he supposes, but as much as he wishes his Daddy were here to wrap him up in a big cuddle, he can't bring himself to swallow his pride and reach out for help. The fact that Matt's reluctance to attend to his own needs is the very reason Foggy proposed they enter this kind of relationship in the first place is neither here nor there. It's no secret that Matt prides himself on remaining as independent and as little a nuisance as possible. The last thing he wants is wake up his friend in the dead of night because he's feeling… _lonely_.

It's just not acceptable. He is a grown-ass man. He doesn't need to be…to be taken _care of_. The thought alone makes him shudder.

And if part of that is down to nothing more than sheer shame, then it's no-one's business but his own. He's made it this far. Whatever life throws at him, he can deal with it. On his own.

So Matt lies there, clutching his blankie and missing his Dad, doing his best to shut out the world and taper down his own desires.

Sometime, _a long time_ , later, as he's on the brink of something almost resembling _quiet_ , - not quite sleep, but close enough, - Matt hears the distinctive, clanging tinkle of keys, followed closely by the turn of the doorknob and an inquisitive voice calling, 'Matt? You here?' There's the swish of a tie being torn off and the swift, hard beat of a jacket being shed and flung over the back of the armchair, and he instantly perks up, heart skipping a beat. 'Matt! Dude, I swear, if you've got some chick in there-'

Sharp footsteps thunk down the hallway and come to an abrupt end as Foggy stands outside with his hand hovering by the door, frozen in indecision, before blustering a sigh and delivering three, solid raps.

When he receives no response other than stagnant silence, there is the moist fizzle of spittle as Foggy purses his lips, accompanied by a habitual rolling up of his sleeves. _In preparation?_ Matthew guesses. Possibly. He doesn't blame him. Foggy has no idea what to expect.

The door opens with a tentative creak.

Then, laced with confusion, '…Matt?' The silk sheets shuffle and suddenly the warmth is stripped away as Matthew is assaulted with bitter air. He swats the annoying hand and wriggles down deeper into his makeshift cocoon, satisfied when the covers are yanked out of his friend's grasp with a brusque swoosh and resentful grunt.

'Go 'way,' Matthew grumbles, wincing as his voice rockets to an undesirably high octave. He just wants to be left alone.

But if Foggy even _remotely_ suspects he's currently occupying the unstable mindset of a toddler, somewhere between only two or three years old, there's no way in hell he'll leave. He couldn't, in good conscience, forsake Matthew to fend for himself (or _Matty_ , to be more precise), knowing that there's a very real, very horrifying chance he'll do something remarkably stupid like stick his finger in the toaster or trip down the stairs or something equally terrifying. More often than not, Matthew can control when he enters his Little headspace, but being exhausted and hurt, there's always a risk his younger counterpart will be triggered. If he hadn't started to delve into the childish headspace already, Foggy's arrival was sure to do the trick.

And now? Now he's screwed.

He can sense the figure towering above him, radiating disapproval.

'Matty,' Foggy begins, voice dripping with exasperation, and there it is. The almost imperceptible shift from worried friend to father. Matt pulls a face. 'Whatever happened to the protocol we'd settled on for whenever you're feeling small?' he asks. 'What are you supposed to do?'

Matt exhales a curt breath through his nose and replies mechanically, muffled by the layers of covers, 'Call Daddy.'

'That's right,' agrees Foggy, patronisingly approving, 'And did you call me?' No answer. 'Matty, did you do what you were supposed to do?'

'…No.'

'No. You didn't. Next time, I want you to ring Daddy _as soon_ as you start feeling this way, okay? It doesn't matter what time it is or where you're at. Can you do that?'

'Fine,' Matty huffs, feeling his brows cave downwards into a brutal scowl.

'Now, now. Don't be like that,' he complains, as if impacted by his hidden glower. 'It's for your own good.' The mattress slopes downwards as Foggy perches on the edge of the bed and begins rubbing the boy's back in long, expansive strokes. 'You planning on hiding under there all day, Duckling?' he asks softly after a few moments.

'Yeah.'

'Oh. Well.' Foggy sighs. 'That's too bad.'

Matt shifts curiously. The man hears his unspoken question.

'It's just…' Another long, drawn-out sigh. 'Thor's in the kitchen - you know Thor? Big guy, built like a ogre-sized nuclear weapon? Yeah, that guy - standing smack bam in the middle of your poky kitchen.'

He giggles despite himself. 'No, he's not!'

'He is too,' Foggy insists. 'And see right, he's torn his cape. He was swinging his hammer and the silly billy let go too soon and the hammer, it went right through it! Right through his big ol' red cape! So now, see, there's this giant, hammer-shaped hole in the middle of his beautiful red cape and he's real cut up about it, y'know? So guess what I said?'

Matt slowly peeks his head out over the mound of sheets. '…what?'

'I said, you know my pal Matty? And he said, I do. Well, he's got this red blanket. I told him it would be a perfect replacement for his beautiful red cape, only difference is it's a little bit fuzzy. He didn't seem too sure about that, but agreed to take a look. Problem is, I'm gonna need to borrow your blankie, just 'til he gets his fixed, but I can't do that if you're lying in bed feeling all sorry for yourself.'

'That's a silly story,' Matt says, but he slides out from under the covers and cushions his head on the pillow instead. It's progress.

'The best stories are the silly ones,' Foggy responds, but his voice is tighter than before. It takes Matt a full minute to understand his reaction.

 _Shoot_.

'Did someone bump his head again?' his Daddy wonders, sweeping a few stray hairs off his crown to get a better look. He lightly cups the youngster's chin and eases his head off the pillow, and sure enough, there on his forehead is a sticky, vibrant gash, crusted with blood and framed by a dirty, discolouring bruise. Foggy skims a gentle thumb over the purpling mark and retreats at Matt's inward hiss. The boy tries to pull away, but Foggy holds him steady. 'Easy,' he murmurs. 'I'm only checking.'

'Hurts,' Matt whimpers.

'I know, Duckling,' Foggy replies consolingly in a borderline coo, combing feather-like fingers through his scruffy locks. 'That's a pretty nasty ouchie you've got there. Maybe we should pay a visit to the fine doctor, hmm? They'll get you patched up and back to your dashingly handsome self in no time. Whaddya say?'

The words are barely past Foggy's lips before Matt is vigorously shaking his head. 'No. No hopi'tal.'

'No hospital?' Foggy repeats, jerking slightly in bewilderment. 'How come? Don't you want to get better?'

'No,' the youngster asserts with a stubborn pout.

'I think you do,' his Daddy croons, 'I think you'd love a drop of super-secret special medicine.'

'Can - can take med'cine here.'

'You can't, though. That's the problem. 'Fraid you ain't got any.'

Pushing himself up on his elbows and puckering his brows, he grumbles, 'Do too.'

'I'm not so sure you do.'

'No,' Matt reiterates, 'No hopi'tal.' His jaw clenches as the frustration bubbles over and leaks into his inflexible tone, hands balling into fists.

'Alright, alright,' Foggy placates, blowing out a weary breath and sitting back. 'No hospital. Guess I'll have to patch you up myself.'

Plodding to the bathroom and rummaging around for the first-aid box, he returns in under a minute, mattress dipping as he settles down and pops the lid, releasing the biting aroma of antiseptic. Foggy pilfers one of the damp wipes and carefully daubs Matt's forehead, drawing back when he winces.

'It's okay, it's alright. Hold still. We're nearly done.'

True to his word, they finish up in almost no time at all, and Foggy once again dashes out with a sympathetic, 'Daddy's gonna go fetch you a glass of water and some painkillers - how's that? I'll be back in a jiffy.' He hurries back and the next thing Matt knows, the chilled rim of a glass is being slowly tipped back against his mouth, water trickling down his throat so that he has no choice but to swallow. 'Here we go, Duckling,' Foggy murmurs, 'Drink up.' There's rustling and then a couple of sugar-coated pills are being gulped down, too.

A thumb brushes his cheek, erasing hot tears he hadn't even realized had brimmed over.

'Come on,' Foggy says quietly as he moves to unbutton Matt's shirt. 'Let's get you dressed.'

Batting at the invasive hands, he squirms away and moodily protests, 'Lemme do it! Can do it m'self.'

'Okie dokie, bud,' Foggy says easily, immediately backing off and heading for the door. There are just some things he knows that, little or not, Matt needs to do for himself. 'Holler if you need any help. Oh, and don't forget your you-know-what!'

Grumbling to himself at the reminder, Matt practically drags his feet over to his dresser, heels scuffing along the carpet, and then, muttering some more and cursing his bladder to the fieriest pits of hell, he fishes out a dumb pull up. He wouldn't say he's _prone_ to accidents, exactly, more that sometimes when he's distracted or dozing off to sleep, Matt sort of…forgets. The pressure's there, he's just doesn't always realise it.

But it's no biggie. It's not like he wets himself _every_ time. Still, Daddy prefers he have some form of protective measure in place. Just in case.

And as much as he detests it, Matt will admit that the embarrassment of donning such a juvenile underwear is by far preferable to waking up with a damp patch of urine around his crotch with the putrid stench of humiliation.

With only a moment's wavering, he stretches the supple pull-up over his thighs and secures the creased garment around his waist, smoothing a hand over the slim padding. He hates how comforting such a sensation is. It makes him feel strangely safe or something; it's absurd.

Dropping his hand, Matt smothers the ridiculous wave of emotion and snatches a tee from the bundle.

While he is struggling to thread his arms through the correct holes, half-stuck under the tent of his tee, Matthew hears Foggy pad into the kitchen and begin poking around his barren cupboards, opening and shutting cabinet after cabinet as he keeps coming up empty. Matthew never buys much in the line of groceries, either through forgetfulness or skewed priorities, though when he does, they're usually mildly healthy.

Finally, Foggy comes across his lone box of Cheerios, the clear sachet scrunched up to protect the half-eaten cereal from going stale. Snatching two bowls from the middle shelf, one plastic, one ceramic (any guess as to who gets which), he shakes out a generous serving and there's a clatter of cutlery as he collects a couple of spoons and rams the drawer shut with his hip.

Foggy then yanks open the refrigerator and snatches an unopened packet of raspberries, a carton of milk, and a bunch of bananas from inside, detaching the least browned one and giving it a cautious sniff.

Apparently deeming the banana fit for consumption, Matt distinguishes the clunk of a knife hitting against the chopping board as he's tugging his pants over the crinkly bulk and zipping up his fly, and by the time he's out, Foggy has unscrewed the lid and poured a splash of milk and is placing the bowls on the counter.

'There you go, kiddo. Cheerios and semi-fresh fruit,' he broadcasts, a warm smile sweetening his voice. 'Sounds scrummy, right?'

While Foggy unleashes a torrent of water and refills his sippy cup with orange squash, Matty climbs up onto the stool and snubs the spoon in favour of dunking his hand into the milk and scooping out a handful of the evasive Cheerios himself, throwing back his head as he drops them one by one into his mouth. Absentmindedly swinging his legs and enjoying the crunch of his cereal as he munches, Matt amuses himself by squishing raspberries between his grubby fingers and sniggering when he squeezes too hard and the berry bursts, watery juices dribbling down his wrists.

Some of the food goes into his mouth; most of it never makes it. His aim is clumsy and Matty tends to hit his nose more often than not while his lips part and chomp at nothing, and besides, it's far more fun to clench his fist around a chunk of slippery banana than to actually _taste_ the funky banana that's certainly seen better days.

Matt licks his fingers and smacks his lips, grinning brightly as he squashes the banana and it shoots out onto the floor.

'Matty,' Foggy tsks, in between slurping up his own portion, 'quit playing with your food.'

Matthew detects the frown in his voice, but he doesn't care. He doesn't know what's gotten into him, but Daddy telling him not to do it, only makes him want to do it more.

'No!' he declares, squashing another slimy piece and hurling it across the room in defiance.

'Matthew,' Foggy growls. 'Stop being difficult.'

His lower lip juts out into a pout. 'Not.'

'Yes, you are. Stop it.'

Matt scowls at the stern tone and resists the urge to lean back and cross his arms over his chest. Why does Daddy always have to ruin all of his fun? It's not like he's doing any harm. He's not hurting anybody.

Having suddenly lost his appetite, Matt shoves the bowl away and chews his lip, feeling extremely out of sorts all of a sudden.

'Something the matter?' Foggy asks in concern as he hops down from the stool and ambles over to the sink to wet a cloth.

'No,' Matty denies, shoulders hunching.

'Oh, yeah? Then what's with the sad, frowny face?'

The other man walks around the breakfast bar and takes Matt's hands in his, wiping down his sticky fingers and scrubbing his face as he twists and squirms away.

'Not sad.'

'You look a little sad to me,' Foggy remarks gently, 'Wanna talk about it?'

'No,' he pronounces sullenly, pushing his free hand against his teeth and gnawing on his fingers.

'That's fine,' Foggy assures calmly as he massages the upset boy's back, 'But you know where I am if you need me, don't you? Daddy's always willing to lend a listening ear.'

Matt sniffles, unconsciously leaning into the touch as the lump in his throat gets bigger. He rubs his nose. ''Kay.'

'So,' Foggy straightens and claps his hands briskly, injecting a burst of cheeriness into his breezy tone that sadly falls flat. 'You ready for some super-duper playtime?'

Matt fiddles with the hem of his shirt and shrugs.

'Sure, you are! It'll be fun!'

Foggy spreads a blanket out on the floor along with a couple of pillows and scatters a few of Matt's favourite toys, before taking his hand and leading him over. And for the first ten minutes or so, yeah - everything's fine and dandy.

Matt contents himself by whacking a rubber hammer against some octopus-like model that plays musical notes and what-have-you and stabbing the different-shaped buttons on offer, a row of triangles and squares and circles that possess a variety of intriguing textures. He pauses only to fumble for his sippy cup and guzzle down some juice, jaw working under his skin as he suckles.

Once that no longer succeeds in upholding his interest, he wields a stuffed doggie and waves it around in the air, jiggling it so hard that it makes a noise, too. But that gets boring pretty quickly.

Matt kicks his legs and starts clinking his wooden blocks together in this mounting frustration that he can't seem to shed or pinpoint the cause. He wrings out his tee and pulls it over his head, ill-tempered and getting angrier by the second.

His muscles are tense and restless, longing to lash out, and his breaths quicken under the weight of his irrationality.

After several minutes gripping one dense block and digging his nails into the hard surface, Matthew gives a petulant whine and thrusts the block at the wall, denting the smooth plaster and knocking off thin flakes of paint.

'Matthew!' comes the shocked yell as Foggy jumps at the unexpected bang. 'What has gotten into you?!' he questions in perplexity, abandoning his stack of paperwork and marching over to the play area.

But the youngster only whinges in a series of incoherent mumblings, smearing a hand across his mouth and banging his other hand on the floor.

'What's that? Daddy can't understand you, Duckling. Speak up.'

Matt's frown deepens and he whines louder, screwing up his face in exasperation. As if he knows why he's acting up. He's just so mad!

'I'm sorry,' Foggy says dryly, edged with a hint of impatience. 'I don't speak cranky. Can you repeat that? In English?'

He does, in fact, repeat it, but whatever language it is, it's certainly not one he's familiar with. Hunkering down in front of him, Foggy exhales noisily and enunciates in an impressively even tone, 'I know you must be feeling very frustrated right now, but if you don't tell Daddy what's wrong, he can't fix it. Come on. Deep breath.' He pats his shoulder. 'Use your words.'

Matt throws the stuffed doggie at Foggy's head.

'That's it,' he mutters through gritted teeth. 'I think someone just went and earned himself five minutes in the naughty corner.'

'NO!'

Foggy seizes Matt hand but he jerks free and flops down onto the blanket, flinging his arm over his face. His entire body goes limp. Immovable.

Steeling himself, Foggy pinches the bridge of his nose and commands, 'Up.'

But Matty only turns away with a gruff, 'Humph.'

'Get up, Matthew. You have until the count of three.'

'No!' He stamps his foot to punctuate his refusal and feels his lips wobble as he represses a tide of tears.

'One,' begins Foggy. 'Two-'

Matt can't fight back the tears any longer and he stomps his foot again as a forceful sob tears from his throat. It's just not _fair_!

'Three.'

Foggy's attempts to pry Matt's hands away from his face prove futile and the boy kicks and thrashes as he captures his wrists and tries to heave him upwards.

'No, no, _no_!' he wails, 'Don't wanna!'

'Well, you should have thought about that before you started attacking Daddy,' Foggy grunts, dodging another one of Matthew's blows.

Bawling now, the youngster flails and writhes, becoming more and more worked up. He's tired and achy and he doesn't know what's wrong with him, but he knows he's out of control and he can't seem to do anything about it.

'Ow!' Foggy yelps, as Matt's heel connects with his shin. 'That's ten minutes now.'

' _NoOOoo!_ ' he moans, blubbering wetly in a stream of snot and salty tears, and swiping at his damp cheeks.

'It'll be twenty if you're not careful.' At last, he hauls the rebellious kid to his feet and escorts him to their designated naughty corner. 'Park your butt on that mat and stay right where you are, mister,' Foggy orders in a firm, stony voice. 'I don't want to hear a peep out of you for the next ten minutes. Understand?'

Matt plonks down with the surliest of pouts and grinds out, 'Hate you!' as he draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, sniffling pitifully to himself.

'Yeah, yeah. Whatever.'

He burrows his head in his hands and whimpers hoarsely to himself, feeling drained and sad as the rage withers away under his regret. He's really, really tired now.

When the ten minutes are up, Foggy finally stops ignoring him and crouches down in front of the sleepy kid, cradling his hands in his.

'Okay, are you ready to stop throwing things at me?'

Nodding shyly and hiccupping, Matt leans forward and tucks his head under his Daddy's chin, nestling into the warmth of his neck and feeling appeased and yet somehow worse than ever.

'Good,' Foggy hums, 'You wanna fill me in on what that was all about?'

Matt half-shrugs.

'Come on, Duckling,' he murmurs, 'What's got you so upset?'

'Was bad.'

'I know you were bad,' Foggy chuckles, amused. 'But why was my precious angel so bad? You were acting like a little devil.'

The word causes him to flinch. 'M'bad, Daddy,' he croaks, fresh tears spilling over.

Foggy sighs in understanding. 'You're not bad, baby. I don't want you thinking that ever, ever again, you hear me?' he says fervently, 'Everyone makes mistakes, everyone has bad days. It's okay.'

'S'not,' he shakes his head.

'Trust me, Matt,' Foggy's voice softens even further, 'you're the best person I know.'

'Really?'

'Really, really. C'mon - let's hug it out.' Protective arms envelop the boy in tight embrace and Matt nuzzles as close as he can, soaking up the affection. Then Foggy helps him to his feet and steers him over to the couch where Matt settles back against his Daddy's shoulder as his blankie is swathed snugly around him, a flutter at his hair like the lightest of breezes as Foggy breathes deeply in and out. His limbs are languid and heavy as he listens to the steady heartbeat of his friend, close enough that he is entranced by it.

Always prepared, Foggy presents him with the squishy form of his plush lion, which he instinctively coils an arm around loosely. Matt pets the furry mane and smiles lazily at the crackle of paper as he gives his stuffed chum a gentle squeeze.

'Sorry, Daddy,' he mumbles, truly apologetic now as the seed of guilt in his tummy grows.

'I know, Duckling. Go to sleep.'

But Matt doesn't. He twists around and reaches out with one hand, clutching his lion in the other, and drifts ghost-like fingers over the familiar bumps and grooves of his Daddy's face, experiencing the tug of his spreading smile first-hand and then searching for the tell-tale crinkles around the eyes, satisfied knowing it's a real one.

Grinning back, Matt lifts his lion and mimic's his previous actions, gliding a fat stump of a paw over his Daddy's skin.

'What's Little doing?' Foggy asks, low and fond.

Matt thinks for a moment, tongue poking out in contemplation, before he declares, 'He eating your hair!'

His Daddy gasps. ' _My_ hair? Why? Is it yummy?'

'Uh-huh.' The youngster pushes the plush toy through the curtain of hair and makes munching sounds, giggling madly.

'Would Little not like to eat Matty's hair?'

'Nuh-uh!' Matt beams. 'Only yours!'

'Well,' Foggy makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat, 'that's because my hair is yummiest.'

Laughing harder, Matt's chortles are interrupted by a wide, ear-popping yawn and he pauses to knuckle his nose, Little falling to his side.

'I think it's beddy-byes for the sleepy duckling,' Foggy utters as Matt lies back down and snuggles into his chest, cuddling Little in the crook of his arm.

Stiff rubber is pressed against his lips and Matt latches onto the pacifier and feels the last of the tension leaving his shoulders.

The only sounds are of calm, constant squeaks, soft slurps and his Daddy's soothing heartbeat as he sucks contentedly and kneads the bushy tip of Little's tail between his thumb and forefinger while he grips a handful of Foggy's shirt in the other, drool dribbling down his chin and breaths evening out into sleep.

 **...**

 _Thanks for reading. Please let me know what you think?_


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